Chocolate cake, carpe diem and that other "c" word

I just had a slice of chocolate “I just found out my grandma has breast cancer and there’s a good chance I’ll have it too” cake.

But for real, I just had a piece of chocolate cake that I would usually feel incredibly guilty about eating. I would have obsessed about my consumption of that creamy filling moist cake combo for the rest of the night wondering why my self-control is so terrible or why I didn’t grab my orange flavored dried cranberries out of my desk instead.

I’m not even the type of person that eats my feelings. It just seemed appropriate.

It was chocolate and comforting and soothing and I don’t even care.

My mom and dad went to see some relatives, my grandpa’s grave and my grandma. She has been bed-ridden for at least 5 years I think and hasn’t remembered anyone in closer to 10. She doesn’t feed herself, can’t move, just lies in bed and gurgles for the most part. As my mom pointed out in a text, her skin still looks fabulous, no wrinkles or anything. None of this makes it any less difficult to hear (also in a text) that she has breast cancer.

As if her state wasn’t bad enough, let’s just pile more on top of that. Watching someone slip away with Alzheimer’s is just watching that person deteriorate until all they can achieve is basic functions that sustain life. I love my grandma and I know she is lying in that bed, but she hasn’t been the grandma that took me to poker where I sat under the table in a smoke-filled room and played with the cat, or the grandma that gave me nametags with my name on them from Hershey Park in a long time. She isn’t the same grandma that loved gambling and sometimes let me pick the greyhounds she bet on (I always chose them by how much a I liked their names.)

Now, it isn’t just about Alzheimer’s and that I’m scared my dad and I are going to turn into bed-ridden shells someday. Now, it’s a fear that I’m going to get breast cancer.

Don’t get me wrong, many of my friend’s moms have had breast cancer, a sorority sister close to my age has it, and it’s all terrifying and real and present. October basically turns pink every year with breast cancer awareness so it’s hard to push aside anyway. According to breastcancer.org, about 1 in 8 U.S. women will develop invasive breast cancer.

·      A woman’s risk of breast cancer approximately doubles if she has a first-degree relative (mother, sister, daughter) who has been diagnosed with breast cancer.

·      About 15% of women who get breast cancer have a family member diagnosed with it.

·      About 85% of breast cancers occur in women who have no family history of breast cancer.

It looks pretty scary when you look at it through numbers, doesn’t it?

I guess I could be just as scared about the pancreatic cancer my grandpa died of.

Maybe I wouldn’t be so concerned if Angelina Jolie’s double mastectomy hadn’t been a massive topic of discussion for a while. I’m thinking if I have that same genetic issue if I will have to consider that option if I somehow manage to make a ton of money one day. I mean, Melissa Etheridge thought it was a cowardly choice, so maybe no? I’m worried that if I get married I’m going to put my family through the stress of a loved one with the disease.

And maybe I’m over reacting. I think we all think deep down we won the genetic lottery that we’ll never have to worry about that stuff. If we feel perfectly healthy right now, there’s no way something like that could happen to us. But life has a funny way of proving us wrong.

For now, I suppose that cake was a good way to keep from unraveling quickly while at work. And I feel surprising OK. After all, I’m lucky enough to be healthy right now in this moment. I’m lucky enough to get to eat that fatty piece of heaven, whether that changes eventually is yet to be seen, but I guess I’m right there with everyone else wondering if they’ll inherit a tragedy.

That’s just no way to think and no fun. For those with ailments now, you’re so brave and I’m totally in awe of your strength, and for those with me waiting, well… let’s just help others, support each other, carpe diem and eat cake.

24

It’s my birthday again. It comes right on the heels of the major holidays, in the midst of those holidays used for getting lucky (you know that’s true, I mean Valentine’s Day and St. Patrick’s Day? Hello.) My birthday usually gets lumped with Valentine’s Day because of the proximity. I’m just glad I wasn’t born at the end of December because then I’d get the dreaded Christmas/Birthday present combo. People born in a span of time devoid of holidays escape the combo present curse completely.

I share a birthday with Abraham Lincoln, Charles Darwin and, this year at least, Fat Tuesday. Apparently, Joe DiMaggio’s brother was born on Feb. 12 too, who knew.

Since my last birthday I have quit a job, started a new one, moved states, ended three relationships and started two (that sounds like a lot but one of them was this weird on and off bad thing so it wasn’t multiple people. Right now if a psychiatrist asked me to say something that reminds me of that relationship I’d say – hanging chad), got my heart broken, had multiple visitors, attended a wedding, was asked to speak in a wedding and be a maid of honor, made new friends, made new enemies, learned to line dance, started playing soccer and acting again, swam in the ocean at night, saw manatees for the first time and glowing phytoplankton. There’s more, there’s a lot more actually. When I was in college the years between birthdays didn’t seem much different. Everything was working up to your 21^st birthday but beyond that it was a blur of school work, parties and a smattering of activities done sober. You learned more, maybe if you were lucky you learned enough to make changes that would benefit your life. If not, like most of us, things went on the same way. Maybe you learned to eat before drinking, that was an important one. New faces came and went, old ones stuck around or maybe we lost them somehow.

The only birthday in high school that stands out is my 18^th. The only one I was really looking forward to was my 16^th, but I don’t remember anything really exciting happening except that I could say I was 16 (maybe that came from the Sound of Music, I don’t really know.) My parents threw me a party for my 18^th with my friends, all of which didn’t drink (we weren’t hardcore it just wasn’t on our radar, we could act like idiots on our own, no alcohol needed.) We danced like mad to the DJ that was a family friend and eventually it was so hot we had to stick our heads out the window to cool off. It was freezing outside being February in Kansas, which is usually dreary, and full of shallow snow that turns the color of mud as soon as it hits the ground. It isn’t the pretty pure white snow you see in December. I always remember there being slush on the ground around my birthdays when I was in elementary school. Sloshing through the dirty wetness to get to a birthday party where we painted plaster molds to hang on the wall, or painted vases that would eventually be glazed, there was one where we dressed in Victorian dresses and played Victorian games where you won fancy soap as a prize. Those were the days.

The only birthday I remember in college was my 21^st. If the only reason to join a sorority was for your 21^st, that would have made it worth it for me. We met at the Heidelberg, to this day my favorite place to go in Columbia, Mo. Everyone started 21^st birthdays there, everyone could eat, drink or not drink if you were underage. I had a boa, my sisters made me a paddle and shot book (think scrap book but for the shots you are taking that night), ALL of my friends came to at least take a shot with me or just say “hi.” I took 21 shots that night with my friends timing me so I didn’t take too many too close together, I had a rule to not take any shots with multiple kinds of straight liquor (you know, four horsemen, three wise men, whatever.) I ate and drank a ton of water and I survived, no throwing up and I remember everything, I didn’t even get kicked out of a bar, which is a common occurrence on a 21^st birthday. I didn’t have to plan a thing and it was perfect. The Winter Olympics’ opening ceremony was on TV that night, but I don’t remember even being interested. I just remember trying to talk to all my friends and sisters that were there, letting them buy me shots called Scooby snacks or chocolate cake. My friend Bill had the tradition of buying a blowjob shot for everyone on their 21^st. He had made me a Rocky Horror themed shot book page and I remember thinking I was so lucky to have friends around me that knew me so well and being so grateful they had taken the time to plan something for me.

Last year, I spent the eve of my birthday in a hotel room in Virginia Beach with my then-boyfriend. He was on a base there and I flew in for the weekend. We didn’t go to an expensive dinner; he hadn’t planned anything although the hotel was nice. We ended up walking to a 7-Eleven as snow fell; I wasn’t wearing enough clothing by far because I had come from Alabama where I had worn a tank top and jeans onto the plane.  We picked up a pint of ice cream, wine and powdered donuts for the morning. That night we watched Tangled in the hotel room. I ate most of the ice cream and we didn’t finish the wine. I flew out the next day, on my birthday, but I don’t remember anything interesting about that day except that he told me Whitney Houston had died in the morning. I don’t remember what I did when I got back to Montgomery, I know that my apartment was like a refrigerator and I couldn’t find my fish (turns out he had frozen to death over the weekend since I had turned off the heat to save money. I know I’m terrible, but when I left I was wearing a tank top, how was I supposed to know a cold front was going to come through?)

And here I am this year. I’ve been alive for 24 years. Last night, instead of getting wine from a gas station, I made a big meal of jumbalaya, fried pickles and beignets to celebrate Fat Tuesday, listened to country, painted my nails and caught up on my programs. I spent the night alone. Today, instead of taking 24 shots I start rehearsal for a community theater production. My Facebook wall has been blowing up all day with kind words, some very kind and unexpected. It’s unusual for me to comment back to every message, but I appreciate each birthday wish so much I figured I’d show it this year, it doesn’t take much of my time. My friends at work decorated my corner with purple and green streamers (mardi gras, y’all) there are beads all over my desk and my boss got me a tiramisu cake with little peanut butter cakes. She said she thought I needed dainty things for my birthday.

Look how dorky I look. Twenty-four years old and I am just as gawky as ever, the tiramisu is the star of this picture. 

I know I must have wondered on the plane from Virginia where I would be in exactly a year. I know I hadn't considered a desk covered in mardi gras beads. Now, I wonder where I’ll be in a year from now. I guess, judging from this year, I could be anywhere, with anyone, doing anything. And although my year is streaked with depression, low self-esteem and anxiety (and any other problems you can think of associated with major change and some outrageous personal growing pains), I can’t imagine where else I would be right now. I’m afraid to imagine where I might be next year. I can’t imagine another year quite as exhausting as this one, but bring it on. I’m ready for it this time.

I was originally going to make this a post about what I wanted for my birthday, but that was really boring. So... money? Wait, wait, drinks, that’s it, just buy me a drink when we’re out. 

Honor

• Part 1: Love

Honor

My guilty conscience is one I would bet on if there was a contest to see how bad a person can possibly feel. There is absolutely no way in hell I would lose. I’m sure this stems from a Catholic complex, being the entire focus of my parent’s acute attention and feeling an anxiety inducing need to prove myself in an affluent area. Also, if I had a quarter for every time someone said to me, “What’s wrong with you?” I would be the most popular gambling-obsessed old lady on a trip to Atlantic City (they play the quarter slots, right? Or is that pennies...) 

This popped into my head yesterday and illustrates my point relatively well. I was in a play in middle school where I actually had a supporting role for once (my director in middle school hated me for unknown reasons.) Do you want to know what I was? I was a french maid and because it was middle school I had long sleeves a knee-length skirt and tights on. I swear, I don’t think a french maid character has ever been so covered up and prudish. We had to perform the show twice during school hours on opening day (which was awesome because we got to skip class.) We were eating lunch in the gym where the youngest kids in school were also partaking in lunch. I threw a chip at my friend (pretty sure I was provoked) she blocked it, the chip exploded when her elbow hit it out of my hand and you’d think that should be the end of the story. No, I was pulled outside with the other girl involved, and a couple kids that had apparently been exploding chip bags. Our group of rambunctious hooligans received a stern talking to. They threatened to take my part away, told us we couldn’t bow in the next show and told us we had to apologize in front of the entire cast for our behavior since we had set a bad example. So, while crying, I apologized to the entire group…for ALMOST throwing a chip. I cannot tell you how guilty I was for having practically pelted a friend with a salty snack. I didn’t get over it for months.

Whilst driving a friend’s car in Chicago one summer I absentmindedly T-boned another car – I was completely lost at the time. The owner of the now nose-less vehicle wasn’t in the car at the time; I was actually going to meet him at the field museum. No one was hurt; the police even said if there was such thing as a “good accident” this was it. The damage to the cars was minimal, they were definitely still drivable, but I swear I cried all the way back to Missouri. The whole time I was thinking my parents were going to make me move back to Kansas and go to community college because of my mistake. I kept thinking I would never meet anyone to marry me; that I had no future. A friend in the car told me at some point you have to stop caring what your parents think and everyone else for that matter, you live for yourself. Even then I knew she was right and to this day I haven’t been able to stop caring.

I’ve apologized for a number of things I never should have taken the blame for and many more things that were most definitely my fault. Things that weren’t that bad, that I was never able to explain, that I took upon myself in order to put an end to something and that someone else caused. It’s relatively easy (except that I like to repeat scenarios in my head over and over dwelling on what I should have done differently.) I have a knack for convincing myself that I’m terrible for whatever I’ve done, I can even perfectly justify why I think I’m the worst person in the world and my life is going to be over. 

Life is entirely too short of these shenanigans, but there's the rub. Everyone knows life isn’t fair. We are well aware of this fact, it’s like knowing you’re going to die one day, but that doesn’t mean we don’t bitch about it. And to avoid being  a terrible person (what does that even mean?) or too bitchy, or bratty etc., I just take it. Don’t get me wrong, if someone was harassing a friend of mine or saying inappropriate things or being racist or something I wouldn’t hesitate to fight about it (and I mean fisticuffs kind of fighting) it’s the smaller things, the passive things that I kind of curl up and take. The grey areas where some people are never held accountable and their conscience isn’t as outrageous as mine. Those in between times when the blame lies on both parties, where there's a difference between standing up for yourself, asking for what you want and being selfish or crossing a line. But then who's right? Who can even judge without knowing both sides, truthfully, with no embellishment?No one.

It's where taking responsibility resides, where you could say honor lives and stuff and junk. Honor sounds like Knights of the Round Table pinky promises and things that aren't things anymore (speaking of pinky promises, my little sis in Big Brothers Big Sisters had never heard of a pinky promise... is that like an old person thing?) Let's be real, you know it's true about "honor." Chivalry is for the most part dead, and honor is kind of going extinct, at least it's on the endangered species list.

I'm no better than anyone else, don't get me wrong. I definitely don't think I'm more honorable (I don't even think people of this generation really contain what was once known as honor, it's like an appendage we evolved without.) I make mistakes (tons of them), wear my heart on my sleeve, cuss too much, talk too loudly, vent, care too much, come off crazy and complain. I'm just really good at punishing myself for being...hm...less than honorable? I wonder how much of a sonofabitch I would be if I just ran wild and crazy without beating myself up all the time. You know that saying that we are our biggest critics? Yea, that's the gospel truth. Well, most of us are at least.

Seriously, if you think your conscience could beat mine in arm wrestling we should throw down guilt and regret stories. I bet mine could take yours.

Basically this was my confession to being my own worst enemy, like that Pink song.